


Late Blooms

by sam_ptarmigan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the 2013/14 Amnesty Period of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Spaces Scenes and Settings"</p>
    </blockquote>





	Late Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013/14 Amnesty Period of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Spaces Scenes and Settings"

There's a breeze drifting through the hills and valleys that flow down from the Lonely Mountain. It's mild, coming to them from the east, and it carries the scent of rich, damp earth and sun-warmed stone. A touch of green. That's the smell of springtime, which has never been quite right anywhere but in Erebor. The first winter in the reign of King Thorin II is over, and Balin's work to restore the city has paused at last, if only for an afternoon.

Long enough, perhaps, to pack a lunch and a blanket and to take a walk with a fellow councillor. 

"Fine weather," Dori declares with a sigh.

He looks very good in the sunshine, his eyes bright and his complexion ruddy. He has likely been above more than any of them this winter, travelling to inspect the fields and flocks of the men who intend to supply Erebor with grain and meat, but there is duty and there is leisure, and an afternoon stroll seems to suit him as well as it does Balin.

"We used to hunt down there, Nori and I," Dori remarks as they amble away from the river, up and over gentle slopes of grass and mossy ledges of basalt. "I ought to bring Ori, if he can be prised loose from the library."

Balin hums his agreement, spying the darting brown form of a rabbit in the distance. The path has long since grown over, gone without a trace, but his feet remember where it used to lie and where he used to part ways with it. Away to shady and secluded hollows. Places where the tender herbs are too sparse and the ground too hard for game, places of little interest to hunters or foragers or anyone but the most shocking idlers.

"What is it?" Dori asks suddenly, catching him out at what he thought was a very subtle study of the landscape.

"I seem to remember a certain ash tree," Balin muses, scanning the hollow for likely candidates.

Dori falters in his steps, and Balin affects not to notice his surprise.

They've never spoken of it. Why would they, really? It was a boyhood fancy, one that ended not in quarrels or tears but only one too many missed engagements as two eldest sons came of age. No harm done, no grudges held. It came and went, leaving behind a few pretty memories, like quartz pebbles put away in a keepsake box with other naive treasures, to be taken out now and again when nostalgia stirred.

He's thought about it often, this year past.

"Ah." His gaze alights upon a leaning trunk and broad branches. "There's the fellow."

He approaches the old ash and takes off his gloves to lay a fond hand upon it. He glances over his shoulder at Dori, a small smile on his lips. "Do you remember when—" 

"That's not the tree."

Balin blinks in surprise. He looks from Dori's growing frown back to the tree and considers it more critically.

"I rather think it is."

"It's not."

"It certainly looks familiar."

"Well," Dori says crisply, "I don't know who you used to sit under _that_ tree with, but _our_ tree had two splits, not three, and it was at least four feet taller."

Balin cranes his neck. "So it was."

Dori scoffs, but happily he does not put an end to the game. He looks about, not at the trees but at the view. His gaze fixes upon some landmark, and he walks backwards, slowly, head tilted in consideration. Balin follows the line of his sight west. He remembers squinting against the glare, resisting the urge to shade his eyes lest he admit that afternoon was burning out and dinnertime was calling them home. A boulder, shaped something like a sleeping hound if you looked at it right.

"Here," Dori says. Softly but not brooking any argument.

Balin joins him at the foot of a rowan tree. "I'm certain it was an ash."

"It may be the wrong tree, but it's the right spot," Dori insists. "Our tree must have burned down."

Balin hasn't enough woodcraft to tell a tree of thirty years from one of three hundred. Perhaps the whole of the hollow was scoured in the devastation, or perhaps the ash tree simply died of weathering. 

He clucks his tongue. "A pity. We ought to do something in its memory."

"Oh yes?" Dori looks at him searchingly and then leans back against the tree, a pretty smile taking shape on his lips. "Such as?"

Balin unfolds the blanket and spreads it beneath the rowan. There is no good wine to be had in the kingdom, not yet, but his basket contains a large bottle of strong beer from Dwalin's winter brewing. "We could favour it with our luncheon and raise a toast."

Dori's smile falls away.

"You don't agree?" Balin asks innocently. He would not tease if Dori did not look so charming when he pouts.

Dori sniffs. "I thought you were going to propose a kiss for old times' sake."

Balin sets down the basket. "I was getting there."

He remembers, as he closes the gap between them, the way his heart would beat too quickly outside the whitesmith's on Tinkers Lane when Dori was minding his grandparents' shop. A basket in his damp-palmed grasp, packed with painful care. Small beer, two bottles. Elaborately stamped biscuits liberated from the royal kitchens after a banquet. Saffron bread. Savoury tarts spiced with rare black pepper or cardamom. Dori was easily impressed by such things.

'Good morning,' he would say, pretending to browse the candlesticks and pie pans. 'I was wondering if you might be free for lunch.'

His most polite smile, as if he were proffering a political invitation. His best posture as he offered his elbow. The thrill in his stomach when he earned a smile.

The first kiss is brief and sweet. Dori's lips are warm beneath his own. His hands curl gently around the back of Dori's neck, and he can feel the tickle of braids and beard, soft as lamb's wool. 

He draws back, just barely, waiting to see if one kiss is all it will be. 

Dori's eyelashes flutter, and then his arms wrap tightly around Balin's middle and pull him even closer. The second kiss is longer, sharper, drawn out by the bold pinch of Dori's teeth around his lower lip. The third melts into the ones that follow, wetter, hotter, his lip sucked with a wicked smack that lights a spark in him.

There's a pause for breath. His brow comes to rest against Dori's. A foolish smile overtakes him, and he can feel against his belly the near-silent hiccough of Dori laughing at their sudden ardour. He kisses Dori again, harder this time, pushing him up against the tree. Dori's knees part, his hands slipping beneath Balin's coat and winding in his shirt.

Fortunately, there is no one to witness their ungainly tumble to the ground when passion overtakes them. 

"Oof!"

They barely keep from rolling off the blanket. Balin ends up on his back with Dori sprawled atop him. It isn't a bad place to be. He clasps Dori's hips and then caresses him from rib to thigh and up again as sunlight pours down between the scantily clad branches of the rowan. Red. He remembers the strands of Dori's hair escaping a haphazard knot. He once wrote terrible poetry about it, thinking himself a great innovator. The epics sang of marble countenances and braids of gold or onyx, but his sweetheart had autumn in his cheeks and hair the colour of fallen leaves.

Silver now. Ah, no, let him indulge that youthful poet and say true-silver, mithril, the prize of Khazad-dûm. 

"You had better fix my hair after," Dori murmurs, withdrawing after a kiss and adjusting the clasp that holds his beard. "I'm not going back looking like I've been _canoodling_." A pause. "We _will_ be canoodling, won't we?"

Balin cannot help but grin. "I was hoping so."

"Oh, good,” Dori says, wiggling out of his coat and folding it fussily before laying it aside. “Still, I do have a reputation to uphold.”

"Sterling, I'm sure," Balin replies. He sits up just far enough to take off his own coat and rolls it into a makeshift pillow before drawing Dori back down beside him. "Irreproachable."

The ground is pleasantly cool and firm. Beyond the edges of the blanket, the new grass bends as the breeze stirs again. His hair is ruffled. It will need no fixing, for he supposes it always looks as if he's been up to mischief. Nevertheless, he takes full advantage of his leave to tousle and buries his fingers in Dori's topknot, letting the soft locks slide between his fingers as they return to the lovely diversion of kissing. 

Quiet. Only the faint rustle of leaves and heavy breathing. The occasional piping of birdsong. The soft, wet sound of their mouths as Dori's tongue slides between his lips. 

Heat rises up wherever Dori touches him. Across his chest, and down his belly, and a tickle behind his beard. He gets a hand under the hem of Dori's shirt and vest and strokes his bare back, fingertips meandering down the notches of his spine before stealing under the waist of his small-clothes and sinking into yielding flesh.

If he still wrote poetry, there is inspiration in spades to pen an ode to Dori's backside.

"Mm, yes..." Dori presses closer to him, rubbing against his thigh.

He never did work up the courage to venture so far in his youth. Oh, he knew what one was meant to do—what was expected when a rosy-cheeked son of a tinworker agreed to a walk in the countryside. Here they would be, watching the clouds, feasting on day-old cakes as they lay together. 'Go on,' Dori would say, his chin tilting up. 'Give us a kiss.' And Balin would oblige him, gently at first, thinking himself courtly. Thinking to himself that if Dori were a maiden, he would propose to marry him and damn the scandal. Thinking of everything he knew about the act, about buggery, wondering with stomach-twisting nerves whether Dori would let him, whether Dori would do it to him, and wondering about Dori's thighs, and their legs entangling, and their hips pushing together.

It never got as far as the back of Dori's hand dragging back and forth over the front of his trousers. Certainly never as far as the patient anticipation with which he is currently working open Dori's laces. Then, it was only an embarrassing flush in his half-bearded cheeks and the belief that his restraint was both admirable and appreciated when he stopped at kisses and draped his coat across his lap to hide his cock-stand.

He nudges Dori onto his back and leans over him, mouthing at the hot curve of his neck. The soft skin just under the line of his beard. The tender spot where his pulse beats. He sucks very gently there, just enough to make Dori gasp. Not hard enough to leave a mark, no matter how tempted he might be. There is a sterling reputation to maintain, after all. He ventures down the collar of Dori's shirt and then rucks up the garment to nuzzle at his stomach, delighted to find a scattering of copper-coloured curls there.

Dori finishes the job of unlacing his trousers. He's nicely roused underneath, his cock poking up against the inside of his small-clothes. Balin carefully draws it forth. Kisses it. Gives it a few encouraging sucks, leaving it rosy and wet.

"Oh, please..."

His ears are stroked and his hair is tugged. He takes his time, savouring the smell of Dori's skin, the taste of him, the rise and fall of his breathing. Sunshine settles on Balin's shoulders, warming him through his shirt. A leap-bug chirps somewhere nearby. Little by little, the breathy noises Dori is making take on a touch of colour. Soft moans. The sound is too delicious, prompting Balin to abandon grace for a free hand. He props himself up on one elbow as he continues to suck Dori's cock and reaches down to get a hand in his trousers.

In the corner of his sight, he sees the progress of Dori's fingertips as they creep up his belly and over his chest, pausing to give his paps a naughty pinch. Dori's hips start to rock, and then his arm is flung above his head, fingers pulling at the grass. 

Balin takes him deep, sucking hard, and Dori thrusts up into his mouth with a gorgeous little cry. He feels the tremble of it against his tongue, the pulse of bitter-salt spreading, sliding thickly down his throat when he swallows. Dori gasps. He hears the sound of tearing grass. 

"Oh," Dori says faintly. "Oh, that's...mmm...."

Balin bestows a few soft-mouthed sucks upon him, cleaning him up, before pressing a kiss just above the plentiful thatch of copper-shot silver. He's still lazily stroking himself, the tip of his tongue running over the inside of his cheek to catch the last taste of Dori's spending.

"Look at you," Dori murmurs, lovely and languid as he fixes his trousers. He wiggles down. Kisses him. Wiggles down further.

Balin lies back. His eyes close, sunlight casting his vision red. The ring of his fingers moves back and forth as Dori's lips close around the head of his cock. Oh, that is bliss. Dori's tongue pressing, rubbing firmly all around. A hand beneath his own, teasing his stones. He cannot keep back a low sound of pleasure as his other hand slips into the lopsided tumble of Dori's hair. 

He makes it last as long as he can, breathing deeply, holding back. For his part, Dori seems content to spoil him, sprawled over him, giving him his mouth, his cheek, the wicked caress of his beard. The knot forming low in Balin's belly draws ever tighter, and his stones pull up in Dori's palm. Not yet, not yet—biting his tongue. Fingers tightening. A little more, until finally a great shiver steals up on him. 

Perfect, he thinks, as Dori's lips tighten around him. Oh, perfect. A loud, smacking suck pulls him over, and he comes in Dori's lovely mouth, moaning. Too loud for the out of doors and too heartfelt to stifle.

The shiver echoes, drawn out as Dori coaxes him to the dizzy last of it. He's slow to soften, letting Dori's tongue flick against him until he is nearly twitching. Cool air when Dori finally draws back. A warm, light touch. Dori is good enough to tidy him up afterwards, and then stretches out to lie beside him.

Balin curls up behind him, chest pressed to Dori's back, and holds him close. He buries his nose in Dori's hair, catching the scent of some perfumed oil amidst the plainer sweetness of thawed earth and bedsport. Dori's hand finds his own. 

"Why did we never do this before?" Dori asks, the last word stretching into a yawn.

"I was too shy," Balin admits. There it is, all that can be said. 

Dori snorts. "You? You were never shy. You were _dashing_ , with your poetry and your manners. I would have let you bugger me senseless."

"A clever ruse." He toys with Dori's hand, stroking the pad of his thumb. "It's for the best, really. My first time was dreadful. Anyone who wasn't there should count himself lucky."

There's a smile in Dori's voice. "You've had practice since then." 

He hums. "A fair bit." 

Dori is silent for a time, save for the in and out of his slow breathing. Balin begins to think he's dozing, but he eventually says: "We should do this again sometime." 

There's the slight curve of a question there. 

"I'd like that very much," Balin hurries to say. "How does tomorrow sound?"

Dori shifts, taking a peek at the sky perhaps. "I've heard it might rain tomorrow."

"You'll be pleased to know," Balin says, giving him a squeeze, "that I no longer share a room with Dwalin."

He cannot tell if Dori rolls his eyes at the jest, but he has a feeling it's so.

"Your own room," Dori says dryly. "You must be doing very well for yourself."

Balin chuckles and then raises his head to drop a kiss on Dori's cheek. He lingers for a moment to admire the evidence of canoodling in Dori's dishevelled hair and reddened lips. "I have no complaints."

Certainly not, when the day is warm and conspires to lull him into a nap. Worthy work lies ahead, but it can wait a little longer. For now, the air is gentle and the afternoon is quiet. Lunch awaits them, and dinner will not call them home for some time yet. It is springtime, and all is well.


End file.
